Tainted - {d.m. & h.g.}

sixteen - itching arms | pinky promises

tw // self harm

(filler chapter, i'm so sorry)

song: october - feverkin

The sun's rays beam through the three-tiered window and pry her eyes open earlier than she would have liked them to.

And from where the sun is sitting, it's around six in the morning; she normally lets herself sleep until eight on the weekends.

But alas, she groans awake— spends a few minutes stretching, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, and forcing herself to sit up from the surprisingly comfortable couch; throwing the knitted blanket she used to cover herself to the side to reveal her blood-stained pajamas.

Her breath catches at the sight of them— the little swipes of blood on the hem of her shorts.

She had almost forgotten about the night before. Her heart sinks at the crimson reminder— the reminder that she spent her Friday evening saving Draco Malfoy from himself.

She takes a deep breath and then pushes herself up from the couch— legs wobbly from her slumber.

And she makes her way toward the washroom; eager to bathe last night's remnants from her body with steaming hot water.

The stone is cold under her bare feet, warm in the places the sun beams in across the floor.

She lets her fingers brush along the wall as she walks, using the touch as guidance for her sleepy eyes and dizzy legs.

But the touch she has on the wall falters as she passes the door to his room. She pauses in her step— cranes her neck to the thick wood of it; bites the inside of her cheek with scrunched eyebrows.

She should probably check in on him.

She's sure he sleeps in late on weekends from the pattern she's picked up on since living with him, but she just must make sure.

And before she has time to think any further— her hand is on the handle, clicking the door open quietly as she can manage.

She peeps in slowly to the curtain-dimmed room; careful to keep the door as closed as possible so no light spills in.

He's still— laying on his back with his head propped high on a stack of silk pillows. She can see his thick band of lashes from where she stands on the other side of the room, even though the darkness. He looks unreal— like a figment of her imagination laying before her.

She standing there for what feels like minutes. Nails digging into the wood of the door.

And she's not even sure what she's looking for until he heaves a deep breath in his slumber; chest rises and falls in a noticeable movement; lashes flutter slightly.

An itch of relief courses through her heart; grip on the door loosens. She hadn't even realized she was holding her breath until her cheeks warm due to lack of oxygen; and she huffs it loose with a sigh.

She inches the door closed then. Turns and lets her back rest on the surface of the outside for a few minutes to collect her thoughts; runs her fingers through her mess of morning hair.

"You're so fucked," she whispers to no one, exasperation heavy in her quiet voice.

These three words replay in her mind as she pads to the washroom. As she rids herself of her nightclothes. As her nails break through the skin of her palm. And even as hints of rust swirl down the drain in her tear-blurred vision as the hot water beats down on her back.